Embury laughed. “That’s as close as I’ve ever come to it,” he said.
“Yep, that’s the commonest stunt. That and the ghostly good-by appearance of a friend that’s dyin’ at the time in a distant land.”
“Aren’t those cases ever true?” Eunice asked.
“‘Bout two per cent of ‘em. Most of those that have been traced down to actual evidence have fizzled out. Well, I must be going. You see, now, I’ve sold this whole spiel that I’ve just given you folks to a big newspaper syndicate, and I got well paid. That puts me on Easy Street, for the time bein’, and I’m going to practice up for a new stunt. When you hear again of Willy Hanlon, it’ll be in a very different line of goods!”
“What?” asked Eunice, interestedly.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am. I’d tell you, if I’d tell anybody. But, you see, it ain’t good business. I just thought up a new line of work and I’m going to take time to perfect myself in it, and then spring it on a long-sufferin’ public.”
“No, I won’t ask you to tell, of course,” Eunice agreed, “but when you give an exhibition, if it’s near New York, let me know, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will. And now I’ll move on.”
“Oh, no, you must wait for a cup of tea; we’ll have it brought at once.”
Eunice left the room for a moment. Aunt Abby in dudgeon, refused to talk to the disappointing visitor. But the three men quickly engaged him in conversation and Hanlon told some anecdotes of his past experiences that kept them interested.